


in which Feuilly is basically perfect.

by moonlitserenades



Series: Like a Remix [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-02
Updated: 2014-06-02
Packaged: 2018-02-03 02:44:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1728194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlitserenades/pseuds/moonlitserenades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Most of Les Amis know that Feuilly volunteers at orphanages on weekends, but he's never taken anyone with him before today.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in which Feuilly is basically perfect.

“Grantaire,” Feuilly calls, over the sounds of chairs scraping and casual chatter of the rest of their friends as they prepared to leave the Musain after their weekly meeting, “do you have a second?”

“I have several. Minutes, even.” He grins, loping over. Feuilly laughs despite himself, shrugging into his battered leather jacket.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” 

“Sleeping until three, upon which time I realize I don’t have food in my apartment, going out and hoping to come across something vaguely interesting to do with my time. So basically, nothing.”

“If you wanted,” Feuilly begins, carefully, “I usually go to…well, I usually go spend Saturday morning with these great kids, and I was thinking, if you had nothing better to do…”

“What would we be doing?”

“Usually I’ll read to them, and then we’ll draw or color or play games or something. You could maybe bring your guitar, if you wanted to come with.” He swallows, silently cursing his own nervousness. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Except that he’s never brought anyone there before, and it feels, somehow, incredibly, intensely personal to bring someone to the place where he’d spent a good portion of his childhood, whether he tells Grantaire that or not. So that’s…something. It’s just that Grantaire has been particularly quiet lately, when he thinks that no one’s watching, and Feuilly can’t help but be worried. The kids are great, and there’s no doubt in his mind they’ll love Grantaire, and his live music, if he actually agrees to come. Maybe (hopefully) it will be good for him.

Grantaire’s face is completely inscrutable. “What time?”

“Usually I get there by eleven, and we have lunch together. It’s not that long, we’ll probably be done by about three.”

Still nothing. “What time would we leave?”

“10:45. It’s close.” He raises an eyebrow, lips curving up in half a grin. “You are allowed to say no.”

“No, I mean—I’ll come.”

“Oh!” His smile widens. “Great. I’ll be at yours by 10:30, yeah?”

“Yeah, alright.”

In a relatively shocking turn of events, Grantaire is not only awake when Feuilly turns up at his apartment, but sort of halfheartedly dressed and drinking what is very obviously spiked coffee. “There’s regular black in the pot if you want it,” he says, and Feuilly nods as he moves to get a mug.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.” He pauses. “So, where are we going, anyway?”

There is the briefest moment of hesitation before he names the orphanage, and Grantaire’s eyes light like he understands.

The ride, when they eventually leave, is spent in companionable silence. Feuilly plays classical music quietly on the radio, and Grantaire (whose guitar is taking up most of the backseat) smokes out the open window. He says nothing about the shabby exterior of the orphanage, just grins, slings his guitar across his back, and says, “Let’s do this.”

They’re barely through the door before Feuilly is being half-tackled by a tiny slip of a blonde girl who can’t be more than five. “You’re back!” she shrieks, and he laughs and sweeps her into his arms, swinging her in a circle before setting her, giggling, on her feet again.

“I promised you, didn’t I, Amélie? We’ve got to finish that story, haven’t we?”

There are others joining her now, others whom Feuilly greets in similar fashion—ridiculously detailed ‘secret handshakes’ (each of which is equally elaborate, and somehow totally different from the one before it), or high fives, or hugs similar to Amélie’s, or sometimes playfully formal bows. He calls each one by name and remembers something from the week before: “Are you feeling any better, Georges?” or “Did you finish your drawing from last time, Matthieu?” This takes approximately a hundred years, but Feuilly doesn’t mind it in the slightest.

“This is my friend Grantaire,” he says, when things have calmed down enough for him to have all their attention at once. Grantaire waves and smiles and the kids, of course, begin bombarding him with questions immediately.

“Can I wear your hat?”

“What’s it say on your arms? How did you do that?”

“What’s that?” (of the guitar now slung across Grantaire's back)

“Feuilly, is Grantaire your booooyyyfrieeeend?”

Grantaire laughs out loud, carefully perches his hat on tiny Monique’s head, talks everyone through the meaning of his many tattoos, strums a few test chords on the guitar, and slides a quick glance at Feuilly, who swoops in to answer the last question.

“No, Grantaire’s not my boyfriend,” he says calmly, smiling. “He’s just a very good friend of mine, and I thought he might like to meet you.”

“Did you? Did you like meeting us?”

“I did,” he says, with playful solemnity. “I do.”

It is at about this point that little Luc starts tugging at Feuilly’s pants, announcing loudly that he had finished coloring the dinosaur Feuilly had drawn him the week before, so he should see it right now.

“Show me,” Feuilly says agreeably, “and then I’ll tell you what, I think we should have some lunch.”

Lunch isn’t much—it never is, but Feuilly doesn’t have enough money to bring them anything better. To distract them from too-dry sandwiches and half-withered apples, he keeps them entertained by making puppet shows using the napkins, and doodling little cartoons on the corners of the kids’ placemats (which they immediately demand that he sign for them--"You have to put your NAME on it, like we do when we color a picture!").

After lunch is story time, as promised, and then the kids (with a few whispered suggestions from Feuilly) manage to convince Grantaire that they should have a sing-along. They sing loudly and off-key, dancing around each other and demanding that Feuilly spin them around or scoop them up (requests that he always, always obliges), collapsing into a hysterically giggling pile after almost every song.

Before they leave, the kids jump them in a giant cuddle pile. Grantaire and Feuilly hug them each individually before they go—complete with ceremonious kisses on the head from Feuilly—and he, as always, is the happiest he’s been all week as he leaves the orphanage on Saturday afternoon.

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time I made an elaborate list of Feuilly headcanons, and this drabble is based on the first bullet point on that list Vé (thecoffeetragedy on tumblr) read the beginning for me, because I've never been that confident that I actually *get* Feuilly, and because she's perfect.


End file.
